


It's A Bitter Little World

by athousandwinds



Category: Gyakuten Kenji | Ace Attorney Investigations: Miles Edgeworth
Genre: M/M, highly-dubious legalese, law: Ace Attorney style, von Karma being von Karma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 20:57:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/141650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athousandwinds/pseuds/athousandwinds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's corruption everywhere you look in Los Angeles, and Byrne Faraday isn't the only person who's tired.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's A Bitter Little World

**Author's Note:**

  * For [voksen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/voksen/gifts).



> Thank you to Fran, who did a fantastic beta at very short notice.

"In five minutes, this trial will be over," von Karma stated, and clicked his stopwatch.

The defendant was crying; long, broken sobs that echoed in the dead silence of the courtroom. The only other sounds were the ticking of the watch, and the hasty rustling of papers from the defense bench.

"If you look at the – the – the knife, you see the blood on it is the _wrong_ – "

"Four minutes," said von Karma. "The blood was old and imperfect testing at the lab caused it to give a misleading result."

"I _saw_ you with him!" snarled Leanne Slaughter. She was leaning forward over the bench, her notes crunching in her fingers. "How dare you corrupt the justice system? I saw you with that lab technician, and you have the gall to say to me that you – "

"Refrain from hysteria," said von Karma. Slaughter was shaking slightly, her fists clenching and unclenching.

"I am not _hysterical_ ," she said, but the Judge looked at her solemnly.

"A courtroom is no place for emotions, Ms Slaughter," he said, "only the cold beauty of evidence," as if he'd never gone gaga over a pretty witness, or on one memorable occasion burst into loud, mucus-filled tears over a tragic story.

"Three minutes," said von Karma, and Byrne, high up in the gallery where he couldn't see von Karma's notes, wondered what he had done to change the lab technician's mind. Down below, Slaughter was attempting to rally.

"You're not considering the evidence of the handkerchief. We _know_ that Lucy Gucey had one in her possession before the murder – "

"And so have I," said von Karma, "and so has the Judge; do you accuse the Judge of the murder because he owns a plain white handkerchief? You should be more careful."

He paused a little, and took on a grandfatherly tone. Or at least like Kay's grandfather, who Byrne had jumped four states to get away from.

"It would be...such a shame, to spoil a new career."

"Oh, well said!" The Judge actually clapped his hands. It was slightly sad.

"Thank you, Your Honor," said von Karma, without interest. "Two minutes."

Slaughter opened her mouth again.

"Please," said von Karma. "Do desist from wild accusations. I have perfect evidence because I work very hard to build a perfect case. It is...not a skill that everyone has. I would advise you to learn it."

Slaughter slumped, and Byrne resisted the urge to shout encouragement. To his right, Tyrell sighed, as if he were thinking the same thing.

"One minute," said von Karma, but he didn't really need it.

  


* * *

"...Showmanship," said Tyrell one night, as if finishing a thought aloud. He swirled the whiskey in his glass with a pensive look.

"What?"

"It's von Karma's...main weapon. He talks...louder than the others...and waves his hands around...a lot."

"How would you beat him?" asked Byrne, who had never had to think about it before. Odd, thinking of himself and von Karma as being on the same side. He wasn't sure he and von Karma lived on the same planet.

Tyrell shrugged, and drank the whiskey. It wasn't very good whiskey, but he didn't complain. "That's...your problem, I'd say."

Byrne pressed his glass to his lower lip, and pretended not to notice Tyrell watch him. It took him a moment. "I suppose I'd put on a bigger show."

"You're good at that," Tyrell said.

That was what started it, really.

  


* * *

At Coachen's trial, the victim's sister sat high in the gallery, her face cool and set. Her name was Calisto Yew. Byrne had looked her up. She'd passed the California bar two years ago, but practised in San Francisco. He wondered if she regretted that now. Maybe she and Cece hadn't been close. The one referee he'd managed to track down had been shocked to hear Calisto had a sister.

She didn't get to speak at the trial - well, why would she, there was nothing for her to say - but the lines around her eyes were tight with anxiety as the judge deliberated. Patsy Gulliver had liked her a lot. "Such a nice woman," she'd said. "Always laughing." You could see the traces of it on her face, distorted by anger and worry. Byrne tilted his head towards her, not obviously. But she looked at him, and when the verdict came back he saw her face twist like a clown's, like she wanted to laugh at a hateful, hated world.

She found him and Tyrell after the trial and said, in a very calm voice, "Hello."

Tyrell didn't say anything. Byrne, to cover up the silence, said, "Ms Yew, I'm sorry about what happened today," because it was easier to cut off her anger here, when it would be harder to scream and cry and cause a scene if he outright apologised. He got a glance that could have boiled ice.

"You say that like I care," she said, and there was something blank behind her eyes, and she didn't care, Byrne realized, and wondered if he would feel like that if Kay died, if Tyrell died. "You think I don't know how corrupt this shithole is? But you weren't even _competent_."

She turned away and her hand flew up, too quick for Byrne to catch. The slap was muted by the soft humming of the air conditioning and the murmur of voices in the courtroom next to them. Byrne grabbed her wrist as it came down, but she shook him off with a sneer.

"If I never see you again, Detective, it'll be too soon," she said, and walked away, her heels clacking on the parquet flooring like the report of a gun.

Tyrell rubbed his cheek carefully.

"...She's got a point," he said.

"It's no one's fault but theirs," said Byrne sharply.

"Not...what I meant," said Tyrell, but he didn't elaborate.

  


* * *

"...Problem for you," said Tyrell, his eyes on the TV screen. "Not a...big one."

Byrne shrugged; he knew Tyrell would feel it. They were sitting close together and Tyrell's knee was resting against his, comforting.

"Say you've got...someone who gives you intel. It's good intel, but you know...they did something illegal to get it."

"It's legal to use it," Byrne said, surprised Tyrell even needed to ask. "You've acted on received information before."

"I know that," said Tyrell. "Is it... _ethical_...that's what I was thinking about."

"It could've been planted by the tipper," Byrne said, thinking the possibilities through. "You'd have to be careful. Or you could make a case for it involving an illegal search – it'd be interesting to prosecute, if the defense made it an issue. I don't think I've done one like that."

"Mmmm," said Tyrell. "Maybe...it'd be better to send that intel to the papers."

"Depends on who you're dealing with," said Byrne. "I wouldn't send evidence against the mob to the _LA Times_ , would you?"

"Maybe not," said Tyrell, half-smiling at him. Byrne opened his mouth to speak, and then something exploded onscreen and the moment was lost.

  


* * *

Calisto Yew had moved to Los Angeles after her sister's death, which surprised Byrne a little. She hadn't wanted to see Tyrell again, but her job made that almost impossible. She bulled through trials with incisive remarks made to the prosecution and barely-concealed hilarity when dealing with the Judge. Byrne only had a few trials against her, and most of them were byzantine, stultifying affairs of corporate abuses, most of which involved astounding amounts of paper and tax evasion. Yew won them all. She drove through the last one with impeccable calm, with the understandable exception of every time the Judge opened his mouth.

Byrne was forced to confront her on the last day, on their way into the courtroom.

"Let's see how you screw this one up," she said, with a hint of scorn.

"I'm better at holding onto decisive evidence these days," he said. "Your employers tried to buy it back from me last night."

Her eyes widened, then narrowed. "Really," she said, and Byrne decided to be the bigger man, and pity Yew's defendant.

Later, after the verdict went in Byrne's favour, she took him for a drink. She ordered for both of them, and then paused, and added a shot of bourbon, which she left untouched on the table between them.

"Who doesn't need whiskey right now," said Byrne lightly, so she didn't have to feel awkward about it, and Calisto Yew raised an eyebrow.

"Isn't bourbon what all cops drink?"

Tyrell joined them after only fifteen minutes, which meant that either Byrne had lost his touch at evading tails or Tyrell had finally graduated to mind-reader. He drank the shot straight away and said, with customary brevity, "Well...that went better than last time."

"No prizes there, 5-0," said Yew. She seemed to relax slightly, relieved that someone else had brought up the elephant in the room. KG-8 hung in the air like the Ghost of Bad Days Past.

Byrne bought another round of drinks, and watched Yew frown into her gin. Tyrell drank off another shot of bourbon and set the glass down with a sharp clink.

"...What are you thinking," he said. It would have been a question, coming from Yew or Slaughter or even von Karma, but Tyrell's voice was flat. His ability to know when Byrne had ideas was disconcerting, like having someone poke your brain. It wasn't uncomfortable but it still threw Byrne, which was probably an indictment of his usual company. Kay didn't bother trying to read minds, she just asked and asked and asked. Byrne had once read in a totally unhelpful parenting book that the why phase was a phase. For Kay it was the only satisfactory state of being.

"We should have been able to do something," he said.

"...What, exactly," said Tyrell.

"I'd like to know myself," said Yew crisply.

"More evidence," said Byrne. "Something concrete. Or exposed something that would have ruined Alba's credibility as a witness."

Yew's laughter was a cackle. "With _that_ judge?"

"He's not the sharpest knife in the drawer," Byrne allowed, "but even he can be made to understand things." He took a sip of his martini and reconsidered. "Eventually." He took another sip. "Sometimes."

Tyrell grunted. This was amusement.

"This is what I don't get," said Yew. "You had it on fucking _video_. What the hell was wrong with you?"

"It was stolen," Byrne said. It hadn't felt like such a lame excuse that morning, when he'd found out, but now it trailed away in the cold conditioned air of the bar.

"Right," said Yew. "So it _was_ your fault," she said, turning on Tyrell. "What, did you take a nap or something? Did you have to make a donut run?"

"It wasn't his fault," said Byrne, roused to momentary defensiveness. "We should have had more evidence."

Yew looked at them both, then uttered a harsh noise of disgust. "I need another drink," she said.

While she was at the bar, Tyrell sighed. It always sounded strange, coming from him, like an admission of defeat. Byrne hated it. "It...was my fault," he said. "Not...the tape. But you should have had something...something to fall back on."

"The Cohdopians were stonewalling us," said Byrne. "Not your fault they have more connections than you."

"You know," said Yew, coming back suddenly, her voice sharp and speculative, "I think von Karma would have won that case."

"True," said Byrne. "If you could stand the tortured ethics of it all."

"I'm a defense attorney," said Yew. "What do you think?"

Tyrell stirred and said, "You won't...win if you don't play like von Karma."

"And break the law?"

Tyrell huffed a soft half-laugh. "One way...of getting evidence."

"We couldn't do it," said Byrne, but his mind was running ahead of him, thinking of what they might need. He looked up, and there was a gleam in Yew's eye.

"You're both insane," she said.

"That's not a threat to report us to the bar committee," said Byrne, already thinking of how to spin it to the Chief of Police, if he had to. Tyrell would be investigating him undercover, of course. That seemed spuriously reasonable.

"No," said Yew. "It's not." She stood up, draining her third glass. "Come see me when you have an actual plan, Faraday, and you're not just blowing smoke."

"He's not...blowing smoke," said Tyrell. His eyes were on Byrne's fingers, twitching with the effort of not going for a pen and napkin in public. "He only...acts like he's full of hot air."

Byrne didn't react. It wasn't worth it when Tyrell was only doing it for the sake of being an asshole.

"Sure," said Yew dismissively. "Oh, and Faraday, I've been wanting to say..."

"Yes?"

"That's a scarf and a half," she said, and her shoulders shook with laughter that lit up her whole face. Calisto Yew dropped ten years in a moment, her hand pressed over her mouth to stifle her giggles and she laughed until there were tears in her eyes.

  


* * *

Eventually Calisto cracked, and sat down with them to work out a heist on paper. They did it at Byrne's house because Calisto said he had the best alcohol, which wasn't saying much, and the most comfortable sofa. It also meant he didn't have to find a babysitter, said Tyrell, which pretty much sealed the deal as far as Byrne was concerned.

Calisto insisted on being the one to pick each target, on the basis, she said, that if she left it to Byrne they'd probably end up attacking Bluecorp and die horribly. Tyrell, given this view of matters, fully concurred in his usual offhand way.

 _But I'm_ good _at this_ , Byrne thought. It was less disturbing than he'd imagined to find this his true calling. It was about justice, he'd decided.

"Your ethics are...hazy," said Tyrell.

"Tell me about it," said Calisto, and giggled for no apparent reason.

"I think we should look at the south-east corner now," said Byrne. "Look, there's no cameras."

"So that renders you pointless!" said Calisto, with malice. Tyrell shrugged.

"His plan," he said.

"At least someone appreciates me," said Byrne. Tyrell shrugged again.

"I appreciate you, Daddy," said Kay in a small voice. Byrne went cold all over.

"Sweetie, what are you doing out of bed?" To his right, he could see Calisto stifling a smirk with her hand, and Tyrell glaring at her.

"I couldn't sleep," said Kay, which was immediately revealed as a great big lie by her yawn. "What are you doing, Daddy?"

"Just working on a case," he said, choking on a sudden and overwhelming sense of guilt.

"Oh," said Kay. Her curiosity was unappeased. "Why are all the big papers blue and not the others?"

"Those are called...blueprints, Kay," Tyrell said. "They're...plans for buildings."

"They don't look like buildings," Kay said, her forehead creasing into a scowl. "I can draw houses better than that."

"It's a different way of looking at houses, sweetie."

"Oh," said Kay. "It's a stupid way." Calisto let out a strangled laugh. Kay's attention snapped to her instantly, and she gave her a huge, gap-toothed grin. "Hello!"

Byrne blessed her for her manners, and Calisto, to her everlasting credit, only smiled and shook hands with Kay like she was a grown-up, which clearly thrilled Kay to the marrow. "You're friends with Uncle Badd, too?"

"Yes," said Calisto decidedly, diplomacy winning out over strict truth.

"Are you a Hero of Justice?"

"Most definitely."

"Like Daddy? Daddy says his job is to make sure everybody follows the rules."

"I've noticed," said Calisto mendaciously, and her hands were shaking with the effort of not laughing. Byrne longed to bury his head in his hands. He'd never felt so awful in his life.

"...Come on, Kay," said Tyrell, apparently taking pity on him. "I'll...read you a story."

"Okay, Uncle Badd!" said Kay, joyous and compliant now that she had everything she wanted. Byrne brushed a fond hand over her hair as she trotted past him.

"That was interesting," said Calisto when they'd gone.

"What was?" asked Byrne, trying to stave off the feeling of being a complete and utter hypocrite.

"Nothing," she said, sphinx-like, and then, "I think you're right about the south-east corner."

  


* * *

Their first heist was an Amano Group subsidiary that was engaged in a complicated merger with a Zheng-Fa corporation that looked cleaner than it had any right to. The plan was beautiful. Byrne had drawn it himself. Calisto had put them onto it; an ex-colleague who worked for them had confided too much over dinner and drinks before hurriedly selling his apartment and moving to Alaska.

"...I don't like the plan," said Tyrell.

"There is nothing wrong with the plan."

"There's too many...variables...involved," said Tyrell. "Might have to run for it." Byrne glared at him. He wanted to say, _we're not all ex-smokers with bad knees_ , but it was pointless. Tyrell was sucking on the lollipop, just waiting for it.

"I'm the only one who'd have to run," he said.

"Oh, good," said Calisto, walking briskly up the sidewalk. "Because I wore my very best heels, in case we get caught. It's like underwear. I bet Detective Badd's wearing his best panties, aren't you?"

 _Mad_ , Byrne thought. _We're all mad here. Except me._

"We won't need to run," said Tyrell. "It's a...good plan." He clearly didn't want to say it. Byrne patted him on the arm, and then wondered vaguely if thieves did that.

"Right," he said, and coughed.

It was the eighth window on the fifteenth floor and Calisto began her ascent slowly. Byrne had gone for the more sensible approach and entered by way of the janitor's closet, the window of which barely peeked above ground-level. He found the back staircase and tore up the first nine flights until Calisto said in his ear, "I'm in." The next two flights he went up more slowly, and he heard Tyrell grunt, which for Tyrell was the equivalent of loud mocking laughter.

When he got to the office on the fifteenth floor, Byrne found the keycard he'd cloned earlier that day on a surprise visit to a totally fictional cousin. It beeped slightly and he froze, hoping fervently that it wasn't a silent alarm.

"You checked the alarm system," Tyrell murmured, which was true, and it hadn't been.

After that, he just had to open the desk drawer - easy enough, with a coil of wire - and retrieve the memory stick buried underneath a mound of office supplies, torn envelopes and a broken set of Neptune balls.

"Got it," he said, and then the alarm blared out.

Byrne relocked the door of the office he was in and settled down to wait. Below him, on the tenth floor, Calisto had long since thrown herself out of the window, secure in her top-of-the-range climbing gear and Byrne heard the car door slam in his ear, heard Tyrell rev the engine and peel out of the parking lot. Below him, the security guards were crawling all over the tenth floor, trying to figure out what had triggered it. Eventually, they'd find the cat.

Forty-five minutes later, he sauntered serenely down the back staircase until he came to the lobby. Tyrell was there, in full menace mode.

"You've been...causing a lot of trouble to us," he said to the guy on duty, who immediately looked apologetic. "Phantom thieves...doesn't look good for you."

"Detective Badd!" said Byrne, trying to imitate von Karma. Judging by the way the security guard's spine stiffened, it sounded about right. "What's going on?"

Tyrell looked away, and couldn't have been more obviously chagrined if he'd been Humphrey Bogart. "...Faraday," he said. "False alarm."

"What, your great thief didn't show up to the birthday party?" Byrne made a scoffing noise. "My six year old daughter could've told you that."

"Could be something we're missing," said Tyrell, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"Oh, I'm _sure_ there is." The security guard was looking at them like he couldn't decide which of them he hated more, and Byrne took the opportunity to twist the knife. "The bunch of failed cops you got here couldn't find a beer in a bar."

Tyrell sighed and closed his eyes. "...I just need the security tapes. To check."

"What, do I look like a judge?"

Tyrell looked wearily at the security guard.

"Oh, fine," said Byrne. He nodded brusquely at the guard. "Who's your boss? I'll call him and tell him you were messing us round."

The guard, fed up, turned round to get the tapes. Byrne palmed the memory stick in his pocket and felt blindly for Tyrell's hand. He found it, but the warmth was momentary.

"...Thanks," Tyrell said to the security guard. "I'll have them back to you before...Thursday."

It was incredibly flattering, Byrne decided, how relieved the guard was to see them go.

  


* * *

By the time they got back to Byrne's house, Calisto was already there on the doorstep with a duffel of climbing gear and a shopping bag. Byrne paid off the babysitter, who looked vaguely terrified of her, and hoisted Calisto's plastic bag onto the kitchen table. It clinked.

"I looked in your cupboards," said Calisto, stretching out on the couch. "It was a tragedy."

"I keep it on the top shelf so Kay can't get at it," Byrne said, finding the sole bottle of Jim Beam in the back.

Tyrell huffed a laugh. "...Good job."

This was fair, because Kay had figured out her way round childproof locks before she was three, but Byrne frowned. "She hasn't found it yet," he said.

"No..." said Tyrell. "She just...doesn't like it."

"Anyway," said Calisto. "You two need to expand your horizons. Live a little. I bought vodka."

"We...pulled a heist worth eight...million...dollars...on the black market," said Tyrell. "...We're alive." He took the glass of Jim Beam Byrne handed him and drank it off quickly.

"Eight million dollars," said Byrne thoughtfully.

"To a rival...Oridon have paid that much for this kind of intel before." Tyrell looked at his empty glass, sighed, and poured himself another one. Byrne found the vodka, which Calisto had already made some headway into, and glanced around hopelessly for a mixer. There was orange juice in the fridge, but he couldn't be bothered getting up again. The adrenaline was starting to wear off.

"Please," said Calisto. "If we're going to sell it, we should shop around."

Byrne looked rather blankly at her. "We're not going to sell it. Tyrell's going to have it delivered to him in the morning."

"Awwww," said Calisto, already beginning to snicker. "And I've got student loans to pay, too."

Calisto's jokes were always strange. Byrne shrugged it away as she began to yawn. "Do you want me to call you a cab?"

"Not until that bottle's empty, bucko." She reached out for it and Byrne handed it over. She swallowed a mouthful, grimacing. "This one's for you, Cece." And then she laughed, hard and high-pitched. It was odd, the forms grief took. Calisto's eyes were tearless, but she pressed her mouth to the cold glass.

"...You weren't close," Tyrell said.

"No," said Calisto. "No, we weren't close."

"Sometimes that doesn't matter," Byrne said, nodding.

"Yes," said Calisto. "Sometimes it doesn't."

They were silent, waiting for her to go on, but she didn't. She was staring at what might have been her reflection in the distorting glass. Tyrell looked away first, turning to finish off the Jim Beam; he didn't like emotions. The sharp chink of the bottle was the only noise in the quiet house. Outside, the cars passed by, the soft whoosh almost comforting.

"I think you should call me a cab," said Calisto finally. She poured them all one last round of vodka, which effectively killed the bottle, and stood up. "To the Yatagarasu," she said, and drank it off without waiting for them.

"To the Yatagarasu," they echoed, and it felt more somber than it had any right to. The pause afterwards was heavy, huge, as if this were the first time any of them realized how huge it all was.

"Goodnight," said Calisto. Byrne walked out with her, and saw her into the cab.

"If you ever need to talk," he began, but since he didn't know what he'd say if she did, he was privately glad when she said,

"I won't." And then, with sudden malice in her face, she leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. The car door slammed, and he could hear her laughter muffling itself in the seat as she drove away.

Tyrell was waiting for him by the door as he came back. "...Everything all right?" he asked.

"Yes, I think so," said Byrne. "She was laughing."

"That doesn't mean...anything," said Tyrell.

With no alcohol left, Byrne went into the kitchen to make coffee. "We'll never sleep tonight, anyway," he reasoned, and Tyrell shrugged. Very few things bothered Tyrell, and it wouldn't be the first time he'd pulled an all-nighter.

"When do you think we'll do another one?" Byrne asked.

"A...month maybe." Tyrell accepted the coffee, but didn't drink. Byrne watched him; his eyes were shadowed and he looked more tired than Byrne had ever seen him.

"We'll need to plan."

"Yes."

Conversation was rarely this awkward with Tyrell. Byrne asked, "Are you all right?" and, something else that was rare, he then felt stupid.

"I broke...eight laws today," said Tyrell. "Looked them up."

"We did the right thing," Byrne said, with all the reassurance he could muster.

"I'm not worried about...that."

Tyrell didn't tend to worry about decisions after he'd made them. Byrne did, but that was relatively new, that was post-Kay and he thought of it as parenthood paranoia. Byrne wanted to ask, _What are you worried about, then?_ , but it seemed asinine. He waited, instead, for Tyrell to tell him, and eventually Tyrell put his coffee down.

"...You and Calisto, huh," he said.

"What, no," said Byrne. It came out flat with astonishment, the kind of confusion that was so great you couldn't even be shocked.

"No?" Tyrell picked up his coffee again and sipped it this time. "I thought..."

"I'm not interested in Calisto," Byrne said, and though it hurt his pride to admit it, he added, "And she's only doing it to annoy you."

"...Huh," said Tyrell, who at least seemed to be accepting his word for it. "How about that."

"Come and sit down," said Byrne. Tyrell went, but hesitated at the doorway, waiting for Byrne. As Byrne sidestepped him to get out, Tyrell caught his arm.

"Byrne," he said, and Byrne closed his eyes, thinking _why not, anyway_ , because once you've committed a major crime with somebody it's much harder to avoid them awkwardly at the office, and he was sure - almost sure - getting less sure with every inch closer - that Tyrell wouldn't tell him no.

But Tyrell kissed him first, and Byrne instantly felt a lot better about the whole thing.

  


* * *

"DADDY," said Kay, in her usual modulated tones. "I WANT COCOA PUFFS."

Byrne thought about pretending to be asleep, but then Kay bounced on his legs and he gave up the ghost. "D'you," he muttered into his pillow. He didn't dare open his eyes, in case the nausea overwhelmed him.

"YES," said Kay. "AND UNCLE BADD CAN MAKE PANCAKES AND I CAN HAVE ICE CREAM."

Byrne tried to summon the energy for a response, but his stomach churned and he only managed to blink. "...Yes?" he offered finally, victim of a madly energetic child.

"What, really?" asked Kay, her eyes huge.

Byrne blinked again, found his voice and his brain, and said, "No, of course not."

"Oh," said Kay. "Can Uncle Badd still make pancakes?"

"Ask Uncle Badd," said Byrne, flopping back down.

"I've got to...go into work," said Tyrell, and Byrne twisted slightly to glare at him. "But...I suppose I could eat first..."

He was watching Byrne carefully, as if he wanted to make absolutely certain of him. Byrne smiled, and tried not to wince at the effort it took. There was a reason he hadn't had vodka since college, God, he'd just forgotten it.

"Morning," he said. Tyrell nodded, as if they'd met on the street.

"...Morning," he said.

After the school run, which Tyrell said was an exercise in traffic offenses, they split up and headed their separate ways. Tyrell needed to edit the security footage before he logged it into evidence and Byrne intended to find von Karma and complain loudly about the false alarm he'd had the night before. It would be worth the embarrassment of being obviously proven wrong to have von Karma witness his blatant innocence.

Von Karma was just leaving Courtroom Number One when Byrne got there, apparently having just completed yet another one-minute trial. Someday, somewhere, some poor beleaguered defense attorney was going to break von Karma's nose. Byrne hoped it was Calisto. She would take the right amount of glee in it.

"Good morning, von Karma," he said courteously. _Brightly_. Von Karma's ward/apprentice/clone seemed horribly disturbed by this.

"Faraday," said von Karma, about as warm and welcoming as a cryogenically-frozen tarantula. "Is there something wrong?" _With you_ , Byrne thought, was implied.

"Not at all," he said, stifling a yawn. "Got called out last night to Serata Holdings. They were all aflutter over this masked thief. Turned out to be a cat knocking into the fire alarm, or something equally stupid."

"Surely most thieves would be masked," said the apprentice - _Edgeworth_ , that was it, Gregory Edgeworth's frogspawn. His forehead was scrunched up, considering the issue. "It would be a fairly elementary way of protecting one's identity."

Oh, well, if he was going to bring _logic_ into it. Von Karma looked deeply disdainful of Mini-Me's pretensions to a mind of his own, and tapped his foot.

"Since you are...so late this morning, Faraday, I presume you won't have seen any memos. Your _thief_ did strike last night. You missed him."

Byrne attempted to display the appropriate amount of shock and humiliation.

"Come, Edgeworth." Von Karma snapped his fingers, which Byrne was used to by now, but it was still unnerving to watch the boy jump to attention. "Leave this fool to his own devices."

Edgeworth followed obediently, but something in the line of his shoulders was aggrieved. _Seventeen_ , Byrne thought, and wondered if Edgeworth had a girlfriend or played video games or did anything other teenagers did. Probably von Karma was proud of having such a serious-minded kid, but it seemed a little sad.

His cell buzzed in his pocket; the text was from Tyrell. _Blood in the water._

Byrne texted back _So long as it's not yours_ and wandered outside, where the press were already starting to gather with cameras and notebooks, ready to face the sharks.


End file.
